What Comes After
by PrescitedEntity
Summary: Ms. Frizzle takes on one of her former students as a student teacher, and years of unyielding sameness changes as things end and begin. Ms. Frizzle x Arnold, if you tilt your head and squint.


The students of Ms. Frizzle's class usually spent the morning before her arrival busying about their business in various corners of the room, bubbling the chatter of youth, but that particular Tuesday morning, they huddled in a group, whispering among themselves, eyes occasionally darting to the figure they were discussing. The figure, a young man with a shy demeanor, furtive but gentle eyes, and somewhat untamed wavy orange hair in a simple cut framing his face, shuffled his feet awkwardly and for his part, focused his gaze straight at the floor.

"Good moooooooorning, class!" called out a familiar voice, interrupting the hushed whispers wafting through the room. Ms. Frizzle, not a day older than he remembered , boisterous and vibrant as ever, wore her signature dress style with what looked like boulders and pebbles in a print best described as a minor eyesore, bringing a small smile to the man's face. From experience, he knew not to question the improbabilities, and indeed, impossibilities, when it came to his former teacher.

"Good morning, Ms. Frizzle!" the children answered in unison, and the orange-haired figure lifted his head as though recognizing something familiar the words, or the voices.

"Ms. Frizzle," a young Asian boy asked, pointing in the man's direction with audacity that only a child could get away with, "Who is that?"

"Well, as you can see, class," she replied to everyone in the room, "We'll be joined by a student teacher today! Please give Mr. Perlstein your kindest welcome!" When the hellos and nice to meet yous died down, she asked the students to introduce themselves. A flurry of introductions flew through Arnold's mind – the Asian boy was named Michael, the African-American girl, Molly, and the rest a blur, a Florrie here, a an Alex there, Amanda Jane, John, Phil, Carmen, Gregory, Rachel, Phil – names not attached to faces as he felt overwhelmed by the moment.

"Do tell us about yourself, Mr. Pearlstein."

"Um..." Arnold, snapped out of his blankness, scratched his head as if to find some response hidden in his hair, "Hi, I'm... I'm Mr. Perlstein, as Ms. Frizzle said," – all the while thinking what a stupidly _obvious_ statement that was, but prodding on, words flowing more fluidly now that he'd started – "And I'm a second semester senior in college. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do until I remembered the time I had in Ms. Frizzle's class – yes, I was her student years ago." He smiled at the collective gasps and murmurs about how Ms. Frizzle's age was absolutely impossible, losing himself in memories about the time he was behind those desk, wondering the same things.

"We're glad to have you, Mr. Perlstein," Ms. Frizzle said with a warm smile, breaking him out of his reminiscence with not her words, but the way she addressed him. Not Arnold, the third grader who she kindly encouraged, but Mr. Perlstein, the young man trying to figure out what he wants to be, and, for that matter, _who_ he was.

"Y-yeah, glad to be here," came the unsteady answer.

"Now, to kick off the new year, we're going to shift from our studies of the ecosystem, which we wrapped up before break, to studying about the non-living things in them. And what better place to start than with something that's everywhere - rocks?" Ms. Frizzle said with a wink at Arnold, "I think we'll have Mr. Perlstein introduce us to the subject, if that's all right with you?"

"Uh, sure, I guess," Arnold replies, sounding rather less than sure. Staring into the faces, his breath caught in his chest from nervousness, making him cough, a cough he quickly changed to clearing his throat. "Rocks are the foundations that everything on Earth rests on," he began, not sure how much he should say so early – would he be boring? Tedious? Would he lose their attention? –, "Rocks aren't just the pebbles, or even the boulders and mountains you see around. They form layers under the ground, above the asthenosphere, the mantle, uh, magma. And they come in all shapes, colors, and compositions."

"Um," a girl with a blonde bowlcut and a polka-dotted green dress – Amanda Jane, perhaps? - waved her hand in the air, asking when called on, "What does 'composition' mean?"

"Composition means what something is made out of," Arnold replied, more easily than he expected, "Rocks probably seem like all one thing, right? But really, they're made out of many different things. What they're made out of determines their shape and color. That, and how they were made." He stood quiet after his explanation, pondering how enthusiastic he'd sounded.

Ms. Frizzle filled up the silence. "And I think we all knows how best to learn about what rocks are made of, don't we?"

"A field trip!"

Even as his stomach did a nostalgic flip, Arnold smiled fondly, the smile having won over the near instinctual urge to mutter about how he wished he'd stayed home that day. At the time, he hadn't exactly loved the insane, impossible field trips they went on, but with every passing year, he recalled them with increasing adoration until he eventually came to almost long for another adventure. Now, hearing those words excited him in a way he hadn't been since third grade, even if back then, he hadn't wanted to be excited.

It wasn't long before some kid or another – he thought it was Phil, but he couldn't be sure – asked something that triggered the fantastic. Driving to a conveniently nearby empty plot of land – Arnold was sure that kind of convenience was part of Ms. Frizzle's magic, too – the bus transformed into a drill that tunneled into the ground. The kids piled out, exploring enthusiastically, while Ms. Frizzle offered nuggets of information, and prompted Arnold to do the same. Expectedly, something went catastrophically wrong – the bus overheated as it approached the asthenosphere, its tires meshing into the rock that was starting to liquefy. While the children neared panic and worked hard out of the feeling of danger mitigated by youthful beliefs of invincibility, Arnold stood back and watched, amused and vaguely disoriented, knowing full well that they were in no danger and half-wishing he was among them. It was at that time that Ms. Frizzle first talked _to him_.

"How have you been, Arnold?" she asked while pressing buttons, freeing the bus from the molten rock.

"Well enough, I guess," he replied with a small smile, "Older, the way you aren't."

"Hmm, time passes for everyone," she responded, her tone adding a cryptic twist to a straightforward sentence. The young man opened his mouth to say more, but as he tried to think of something to say, the kids piled in, and the moment of conversation was lost.

And so it was for a few weeks. Ms. Frizzle, like any other teacher, slowly began to step back and let Arnold take hold of the class; he was surprised by how much busywork there was. Time blanks out the uninteresting aspects of one's memories, but now, as a student teacher, he saw that they must've done many assignments, written many papers – they simply learned what they did and forgot about the boring and mundane. That this was the case earned Arnold's great admiration. He also came to know the students. In them, he saw himself and his grade school friends, a tight group of disparate personalities that somehow managed to click. The days passed eventfully, uneventfully.

Four weeks into the semester, Ms. Frizzle called him to the school on a Saturday. Had it been anyone else, he'd have refused – who works on a Saturday? – but it was Ms. Frizzle, so he went.

"Arnold, I'd really appreciate it if you could help me with bus repairs while you're here."

The idea struck him as unnerving – the bus was, after all, like a part of Ms. Frizzle, and it alarmed him that she would ask him maintain the bus, but more unnerving was the weariness of her voice, so he agreed despite his qualms. Through the next few weeks, he learned how to not only fix, but operate the bus – "Because you'll have to take them on field trips in order to pass," Ms. Frizzle reasoned, her eyes oddly serious.

They talked about many things while they worked together. Apparently, Wanda had applied for the position of student teacher, but Ms. Frizzle had turned her down in favor of Arnold, something that brought a wide-eyed stare to his face. He questioned why she'd choose the eternally hesitant over the ambitious and spontaneous, and she'd only mysteriously laughed that she had her reasons.

On another day, he finally worked up the curiosity and courage to confront her about her agelessness.

"Are you even human?"

She looked at him oddly, and for an instance, he read a myriad of emotions – warmth, shock, doubt, care, wistfulness, regret, and something almost like _love_ – in her eyes. Aware her veil had dropped, she averted her eyes, a strange, uncharacteristic, _vulnerable_ smile at her lips.

"I haven't been sure for a long time now," she replied softly, "But these days, I'm feeling more human by the day."

After a pregnant, uncomfortable pause, Ms. Frizzle quickly brought up the students, and the blip of recognition that something had changed escaped from the grasp of Arnold's mind.

Towards the end of the year, Ms. Frizzle's constant vivaciousness seemed to ebb. She often had Arnold lead the class with the excuse that it was time for him to learn to teach independently, but he perceived her weakness; she no longer busied about doing things, and the passionate energy that bubbled from her diminished as she spent most of her time curled up in the chair that Arnold couldn't even remember her using before. To compensate, Arnold dutifully learned to buoy spirits and even to infuse excitement, not wanting to see the disappointment in the students' gazes. A feeling of unease permeated the class, and in him rose a deep concern for his once teacher, now mentor, but he had no choice but to shove it aside as he prepared for graduation.

The day after he graduated, she called him to her room, refusing to tell him why over the phone.

"I-is something wrong?" he asked when he saw her, wringing his hands worriedly.

"No," she replied, "It's just that a very important time is coming, and I wanted to speak with you about it."

"Ms. Frizzle," he sighed exasperatedly, "This entire semester, you've been cryptic as though you're hiding something. Can't you just give that a rest now?"

"Arnold, I'm nearing the end."

"What?" His eyes grew wide as his mouth hung slightly ajar.

"It's been so many years that I can hardly remember when it started. But it started just like this. I was his student, and then I was his student teacher," she murmured.

"Wait, I don't understand," Arnold cut in hurriedly, lines of concern creasing his visage, "The end?"

"I'd forgotten that I am still a human, and all humans die someday."

"You're joking, right? I... You can't expect me to believe..."

"That all people die?" she asked, eyebrows lifting slightly in amusement.

"No, that... Dammit, I don't know, you just can't," Arnold replied, flustered, starting to pace.

"The power is in the bus – the train – the wagon, or whatever else it has been or will turn into. The person only harnesses it to inspire." She stood, grasping Arnold's shoulders to stop his pacing. "But nobody is meant to defy nature indefinitely."

"Then what? You die, and the bus..." he trailed off as realization dawned – that all the tinkering they'd done, all the repair work, was in fact meant to make – "Me. You've been training me to take over."

The young, yet old woman smiled the smile of decades of life. "Yes."

"But why? How?" Vague questions, but Arnold knew from the twinkle in her eyes that she knew exactly what he'd inquire.

"Why you? You asked why I chose you over Wanda, citing your hesitance, but that hesitation is crucial. The bus's power is great, and only great restraint can keep it from being misused, on purpose or by accident. And as for how," she chuckled, "You've been doing it for the past few weeks."

"Maybe so, but..." His head swam in a flood of confusion and disbelief, his brow furrowing as blood pounded in his temples. "But... I can't! There's no way. I – "'

Ms. Frizzle pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him, before cupping his face and bringing his head down to her level. Arnold, shocked, could only blush as she placed a chaste, soft kiss on his forehead. The torrent of thoughts, fears, doubts, skepticism, and worries in his mind faded into a light haze of simple sadness at what was inevitable, and wonder at what would be.

"You'll do great, Arnold," she murmured softly yet with utter conviction, "I trust you."

Days later, she passed away.

Her death raised many questions among the public. How could someone who looked so young and healthy have the body of an old woman? In the midst of the bewilderment, one young man knew the answer perfectly well as he lived his first days unaging.

* * *

AN: Yeah, I'd originally conceived this as a multipart story with much stronger romantic overtones and a greater focus and development of the students, but it seemed to me that there'd be too much filler that way. If it feels somewhat rushed, that's why. Also, I wrote it off the cuff, so... it's unpolished. I may rewrite this in a better paced, more detailed way at some point.


End file.
